


Reconstruction

by EllieRose101



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon Rewrite, F/M, Season/Series 05, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:28:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24659131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllieRose101/pseuds/EllieRose101
Summary: Buffy and Spike had started a tentative relationship in Season Five. With everything going on, they hadn’t told her friends, but now she’s back and they have to face the music. Between her trauma and his grief, can they find a way to rebuild?
Relationships: Spike/Buffy Summers
Comments: 8
Kudos: 59





	1. Bargaining (Part One) – October 2001

**Author's Note:**

> Rated for swearing, sexual content, and violence, though the violence won't be extreme/explicitly described.

Dawn wouldn’t let Spike kill himself. He resented her for that but loved her too much to go against the command. She’d made it clear it was a command. She’d made him promise.

Just like Buffy had made him promise.

As much as it killed him, he wouldn’t break his word to another Summers woman. He’d failed Buffy, but he wouldn’t fail Dawn – not again – because that would be failing Buffy all over again and that thought was unbearable in and of itself.

So, he was stuck living his unlife full of suffering and grief. He supposed he deserved it. Such was the penance for not keeping up his end of the bargain. For not protecting Dawn in the first instance, which caused Buffy to sacrifice herself in the second instance.

She was gone and it was his fault and he was never, ever going to get over that. He didn’t _want_ to get over it, in truth. He didn’t deserve peace, but gods if he didn’t want her back. He’d thought about it. Dreamed about it. Talked the possibility of it to death with Dawn, but they’d agreed it was best to let Buffy have her rest. She’d earned her place in heaven and neither of them were selfish enough to pull her out, no matter how tempting the prospect of seeing her face again. Holding her. Watching her breathe, or laugh, or even stomp a demon to death.

The longing deep in Spike’s bones was driving him mad, and he really didn’t know how he was going to keep going, because that madness was getting worse. His eyes would unfocus, or his thoughts would get lost halfway to some other destination, or he’d register a sound just on the edge of his hearing, and suddenly he’d be right back in time, imagining Buffy so vividly she seemed real. And each time reality kicked back in, it ripped him open all over again, the wound as fresh as that first day. Those very first hours.

He couldn’t trust himself. Couldn’t trust his brain to decipher what was real and what was torturous imagination. So, when he left Revello Drive the night of the one-hundred-and-forty-eighth day and tracked his usual route to the grave, he didn’t at first realize what he was seeing.

He shook his head.

Slapped his ears.

Clocked himself in the temple.

Pinched his wrists so hard they bled.

The scene in front of him didn’t change.

He stopped and took it in again, forcing his breath to slow. Making himself concentrate. There were herbs on the gravestone. There was blood in the grass. Overlaid over that were the scents of the Scoobies, and under that was the sound of scrabbling. Of panicked blood pumping in terror, of gasped breaths, and cries, and nails breaking.

After taking a full minute to assure himself it was all real, Spike sank to his knees and started digging out great chunks of earth with his hands. The more soil he moved, the clearer the sound of Buffy became.

 _Buffy._ Buffy alive, in her grave, clawing her way out.

Spike dug faster, shouting at the Slayer through the wood that he was coming. He was going to get her out. He’d save her, he would.

In the end, she broke through the paneling of the coffin before he got the full length of it cleared, but what little he had shifted meant that her first gasp of unconfined air was indeed actual air and not dirt falling in on her and stifling her lungs more.

Together, they ripped the hole bigger and then Spike leaned down into the grave and pulled Buffy out, holding her trembling frame to his chest and not letting go as she sobbed and clutched at him with equal fervor.

It was hours, or days, or a century before he heard his voice cry out a litany of her name into the dark. Buffy, Buffy, Buffy, _Buffy._

Her responding voice was a croak. Spike had to strain his ears to pick it up.

“Where… where am I?”

Sunnydale. Earth. Reality. Back inside your own skin. In my arms. The answers ran through Spike’s brain on speed, but eventually he said, “With me. I’ve got you.”

She shuddered and didn’t say anything else for a long while. Time had lost all meaning. The whole Earth had gone sideways, and it wasn’t until Spike detected a change in Buffy’s shaking, from trembling with shock to shivering with cold, that he finally dared move. 

“Come on now, pet,” he said gently. “Let’s get you inside.”

She nodded almost imperceptibly and he slowly eased them both to their feet and over to his crypt. He offered to take her to the lower level and let her lie down, but she shook her head violently at that.

 _Right,_ came the first coherent thought to appear in his head. _Of course she doesn’t want to feel trapped. Especially not here with the dead things. Fuck._

“I could get the car. Drive you home and–”

“No,” said Buffy. “No, just… just hold me. Keep holding me. Up here. Stay here, please.”

Her voice was as weak as he’d ever heard it and it made something in his gut twist.

“Anything,” he told her. “Anything you want, Buffy. I’m here.” He didn’t have the first clue what the fuck was happening, but he knew that much.

Spike sat down in his armchair and she curled herself against his chest, so still and silent and yet so very alive that he was scared to close his eyes in case it all came crumbling down.

\---

Buffy didn’t know what was happening. One minute she’d been safe and warm, everything had been light and easy and… complete. Fulfilled. And then suddenly she was in the dark, suffocating. Hurting. Trapped. She didn’t know how much time had passed between that and ending up in Spike’s arms, but she knew his arms and they made the hurt almost bearable.

Almost.

If only she knew where she was. Or _when_ she was. Or why. But she couldn’t make her mouth work to ask. It was taking all of her strength not to give into the huge, wracking sobs she could feel building.

Thoughts would come in a torrent – so fast she couldn’t single any of them out – only to just as suddenly dry up and leave her bereft. Cold. Alone, except for Spike. Spike held her and she held him back, glad for something tangible to stop herself from being washed away.

She’d never felt more terrified in her life. Which, given her life, was one hell of a statement. She tried to content herself in being held. In the solid feel of chest and arms. In Spike’s scent, though it was so strong she almost flinched from it. Nothing was happening other than the mutual holding, but the whole world was too loud, too bright, violent and sharp and intense. Yeah, intense, that was the word. It was like all Buffy’s senses had gone into overdrive, and even though they were sitting in the dark, only a small amount of moonlight coming in under the door, it was too much.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered and she winced.

The words hurt her ears, but they did ease something in her chest. A little. A little ease was something. It was the only thing.

“A-again,” she told him.

“What’s that, pet?”

She closed her eyes against the pain of his voice. “Tell me again.”

Spike shifted ever so slightly underneath her. “I’ve got you. I’m here. You’re safe.”

The last part made her angry, and she must have displayed her displeasure somehow, because when he continued the litany, he left it out. At some point, Buffy became aware of his cheek being wet against hers. It took her a while to discern which one of them was crying, but eventually decided it was Spike. That… shifted something in her chest, but she didn’t know what. She couldn’t focus on the thought long enough to make sense of it.

At some point, the light coming under the crypt door changed. Buffy shied away from it, burying her face against Spike’s shoulder. His scent was stronger there, but she could handle that, now, if nothing else. She was getting used to his voice again and decided she needed it, not sure what to do if and when it stopped.

She pulled back a little to look at him. “Spike?”

“Yeah, pet?” He had the whole world in his eyes. Intense, yeah, intense.

“Y-you….” She frowned, momentarily having forgotten what she was going to say, then finding it again. “You can’t ever die.”

He laughed. A single bark of tortured laughter that shook through her.

Buffy found herself angry again. “No,” she said, her voice raw. “You can’t stop. You need to not stop. Not ever!” She hit him in the chest and he took hold of her wrist to stop her doing it again. Slowly, Spike brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. That’s when she noticed she was bleeding. Him, too, though not as much.

That’s when the tears came. They came and came, so hard and overwhelming that Buffy didn’t think they’d ever stop, but through the noise of them – the shaking and the pain and struggling breaths – she heard Spike vow not to go anywhere. Not to leave her. Not to die so long as she never left him.

He told her he loved her and she almost gasped in relief. That. That’s what she needed. That’s what would get her through; that which was the closest thing to where she’d been.

“Again,” she said through her continued weeping.

“I love you, Buffy,” Spike vowed. “I love you. I do. I’ve got you.” And he carried on and on, repeating the words until something like sleep crept over her, cold and dreamless but quieter than anything else so far. Buffy leaned into it and felt her body start to float, her tears slow down, her thoughts fall into a steady rhythm and then fade into the background.

\---

Dawn didn’t know what was up with everyone, but they were acting weird. Willow, Xander, Tara, and Anya were all on edge, showing the most grief as Dawn had seen from them since that very first day without Buffy. She figured something must have happened, or that maybe it just hit them afresh, all delayed or whatever? Except it didn’t make sense for that to happen for all of them at the same time. No, something had definitely happened, but none of them were saying anything and it was pissing her off. She hated when they shut her out. When they decided for her what was best for her to know, as if she was still a kid. As if she hadn’t already been through everything. Faced everything. Did they think they could protect her now?

“I want to go to the grave,” she’d told them.

And they’d argued like they always did, except more than usual, but that only made her all the more determined. “I’m going,” she pronounced, “and you can’t stop me. Either come with or leave me alone.”

So she’d left and they’d followed, at a distance. Dawn had gotten to the grave first. Saw it first. The destruction. The soil everywhere, and broken wood, and – when she got close enough – the emptiness of what was left of the coffin.

 _Oh god!_ Was– was this what they hadn’t wanted her to see? Had they known that someone had done something? Taken her? Had they taken her? Dawn shook her head, knowing that didn’t fit. They wouldn’t have left things like that, and if they somehow had Buffy, she’d have seen her, right? She’d seen them come in the night before, as Spike was leaving and they hadn’t been carrying anything.

They were catching up to her now. Running. Dawn wanted to turn and scream at them to explain. To tell her where Buffy’s body was. To give her back. But she couldn’t bear it – any of it – so she ran. Dawn ran to the first safe place she thought of, slamming into Spike’s crypt and stumbling over her words only to stop dead because… because Buffy was there. Spike was holding her. Spike was holding Buffy, and she looked terrified, like she wanted to run away from Dawn and the sunlight streaming in behind her and the voices chasing her, but Spike was holding her still. Spike was holding Buffy, and Buffy… Buffy was alive.


	2. Bargaining (Part Two) – October 2001

Spike should have known it would all come crashing down too soon. As in shock as Buffy still clearly was, he’d expected her to react badly when the time came for her to see anyone else and get used to everything again, but he’d hoped the introduction of people and life more generally could have happened gradually.

Gradual change was not a luxury Buffy often experienced in her life, of course, and he should have remembered that. He was furious with Dawn for the way she came running in and would have had no problem giving her short shrift if not for the fact that, in the moment, he was too busy trying to stop Buffy from bolting, and also, he caught the Bit’s face.

“What did you–?” she managed to say before everyone else piled in behind her.

All at once, things went nuts as everyone started talking over each other – exclamations of surprise (Tara and Anya), joy (Willow), and annoyance (Xander) – and Buffy finally succeeded in ripping herself from Spike’s grip and running to the back of the crypt where she crouched, closed her eyes, and put a hand over each ear.

Stuck by not knowing whether to go after her or deal with her bloody pals first, it was Dawn who turned to them and told them all to shut it. Spike forgave the girl her own interruption, for that.

“Why don’t we take this outside,” she suggested, displaying an impressive amount of maturity.

Maturity that Xander fucking Harris evidentially lacked, because all he cared about was that Spike couldn’t go out in the daylight and that he didn’t want to “leave him alone” with Buffy.

“Buffy’s clearly distressed,” said Tara gently. “Maybe it would be better if we all gave her some space.”

Xander began to argue but Spike tuned him out. He knew the score; was pretty sure he could predict each and every objection he’d raise right down to the very wording, and none of that mattered while the Slayer – savior of the fucking universe – was cowering among cobwebs and empty beer bottles.

Spike left the standoff and approached her slowly, getting close and lowering himself to her level so she could easily reach for him, if she so wished, but careful not to touch her first.

“Buffy, love?” he said, the room around him silent again. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him but ignored them all as Buffy shook her head, her hands still over her ears. “It’s okay now, pet. No one’s gonna hurt you. Spike’s got you, remember?”

She looked up at him, seemingly taking in every line in his face before slowly lowering her hands and, with a gulping breath, turning to look around at everyone standing there, gaping at her. In the corner of his eye, Spike saw Willow open her mouth and Dawn raise a hand to halt her.

“Buffy?” Spike called to her softly, and she turned to focus solely on him again. There was a pregnant pause, then she reached for him just like he hoped she would. On shaky legs, both Spike and Buffy stood up, her pressed tightly under his arm.

“What is she doing?” asked Xander, making a vague gesture. “You’re all seeing this, right? Why is she reacting to Spike?”

It very much looked like he was going to continue, but then Dawn said, “It’s okay. I… I think they were dating.”

Everyone, including Spike and Buffy, turned to look at her.

“What are you talking about?” asked Anya.

“I might be wrong,” said Dawn. “Neither of them said anything, but before… before summer, I got the impression that… that maybe….” She worried her lip, now apparently less sure of her theory than when she started out. Turning her eyes pointedly to Spike and ignoring the rest of the gang, she said, “I’m right, aren’t I? You two. You were– _are_ together?”

_Christ_. Spike had never envisioned the revelation going down well, but even he couldn’t have pictured the clusterfuck he now found himself in. It was on the tip of his tongue to put the whole thing off and say it wasn’t the time, but then Buffy came right out and said, “Yeah. Spike and I… we, uh….” She looked up at him with a kind of puzzled expression, as if seeing him for the very first time, and he held his breath on impulse, like a criminal waiting for his sentence to be doled out. Buffy took his shaky hand in one of her own and, without looking back at her friends or Dawn, affirmed, “We’re together.”

That started off a fresh round of everyone talking over each other that not even Dawn could stop, and Spike felt a thousand things at once: acceptance – not by anyone but Buffy, and maybe Dawn, but they were the only two that mattered – fury, and powerlessness being the predominant emotions burning through him. He wanted to tell everyone but the Slayer to get lost but knew he couldn’t make them do anything, if it came down to it, and if they really had a mind to stake him they could probably manage it en masse. Hell, Willow was powerful enough these days to probably set him on fire just by looking at him. Spike was torn between strangling the Witch and kneeling at her feet to thank her for the gift of Buffy’s return, but the urge to strangle was winning out, because despite the strength of her declaration, Spike could already feel Buffy starting to retreat again and not one of her bloody mates bar Tara seemed to notice or care.

Anya was asking all kinds of questions of anyone who would listen, and Xander had started in on a fresh round of denial and accusations while Dawn’s cool, calm control started to crack. “I don’t understand,” she was saying. “There’s a lot happening. If we could all just–” She turned to look beseechingly at everyone in turn, but no one was looking back, all caught up in their own little bubbles.

Amidst the chaos, Willow stood silently, staring directly at Spike. He wished he could comfort Dawn but supposed that would come, in time. Until then, he met the Witch’s gaze and held it.

“You,” he said, the amount of venom in his voice surprising even himself and making Buffy flinch in his arms. He lowered his tone and everyone else finally shut up again so as to hear him. “You did this.”

Dawn refocused her attention on Willow. “You?” she echoed. “But I thought–?” She turned back to Spike and he shook his head.

“Said I wouldn’t,” he reminded her.

Willow frowned at both of them. “Guys, none of this matters. Buffy’s back. She’s here. We did it!”

At this, Buffy looked up again. Spike didn’t catch whatever expression she had on her face, but saw the corresponding horror in Willow’s eyes.

“This was you?”

Willow wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly defensive where the moment before she’d been proud. “I– I did,” she stammered, adding, “I did and I’m not sorry,” a little more confidently a moment later.

Spike’s blood boiled. He had to hold himself back from accidentally hurting Buffy as the urge to fang out and clench his fists and do lots of other, much more violent actions swelled up inside him.

“Get out,” Buffy told Willow, before looking past her to Xander and Anya and Tara, clearly opening the command up to all of them as if she lived there. Not that Spike cared. He’d willingly let Buffy call the shots on everything and anything from here on out.

“What?” said Willow, eyes wide and shining from unshed tears. “Why aren’t you grateful.” She turned to Tara. “Why isn’t she happy?”

That did it. Unable to hold himself in check any longer, Spike snarled. “Might be because you ripped her out of bloody heaven,” he snapped, shocked when Willow turned to him in surprise.

_“Heaven?”_

He raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t know?” Why the fuck hadn’t she known? Surely it should have been the most obvious thing in the world.

“Get out,” Buffy said again, effectively cutting off the rest of the discussion. Her voice was louder now, but somehow sounding even more broken.

This time, everyone listened.

\---

Back at the house, there was the inevitable impromptu Scooby meeting in which everyone fired questions at Dawn and she tried to answer them as best she could while simultaneously trying not to lose her shit and lash out at them all. She wished Buffy and Spike were with her so they could put up a united front, but she also got why they needed to be alone. Even if Giles were around, things would be better – at least a little calmer – but he wasn’t so Dawn would just have to deal.

“I don’t know anything,” she told Xander for at least the third time since walking in the door.

“But you said you suspected something,” he challenged. “That means you saw something. So spill, because right now none of this is making sense.”

Dawn glared at him. “It’s not making sense to you? My sister got raised from the dead and you didn’t tell me!” God, she was crying now, hating herself for the shriek she heard in her own voice, for the shaking in her hands and feet, the pure rage taking her over. “How could you?” She turned her eyes to the rest of the group. “How could any of you?”

They didn’t have an answer for that. At least, not any good ones. Willow tried to make excuses about having assumed Buffy was “somewhere bad” and needed saving and not trying to get Dawn’s hopes up but the look on her face as she said it told Dawn that Willow wasn’t even buying her own B.S.

“Listen,” Dawn declared at last, “this is all a lot. I don’t know how any of you are focusing on Buffy wanting to be with Spike right now, like it even matters. Just leave her alone and leave me alone. You’ve all done enough.”

And with that, she went up to her room and slammed the door.

\---

Buffy was reeling. Or, no. What was it called when a fishing rod was already reeled the whole way out, but then it kept going and detached from the rod and was gone? She was pretty sure there was a word for it, but couldn’t remember what it was. Anyway, that’s what she was. Adrift. Tangled at the same time. Buffeted about by tides and fish and everything else in the sea. All of them wanted a piece of her but it was too late. The shore was so far away, and she was lost. Useless. Buffy wrapped her arms around herself as her stomach rolled over. She thought she was going to throw up, but then Spike called to her again, softly. She looked up and he guided her back to the armchair they’d been cuddled in before her friends had stormed in.

Her friends. Willow. They’d done this. She couldn’t quite believe it.

Buffy might have suspected Spike of bringing her back, if she’d been thinking at all, but she would not have guessed the gang would be so careless. Hadn’t Giles warned them? Hadn’t he been able to check where she was, or how she was, or something? It occurred to her then that Giles hadn’t been with them. Did that mean he didn’t know? God, how much time had even passed?

“Spike?” she heard herself say, the voice detached from herself just like the fishing line and the rod.

“Yeah?” he said. He was sitting opposite her now, perched on the edge of his coffee table rather than under her, and she didn’t like it. She needed him close, not far away.

Buffy held out her hand and he moved to the arm of the chair so she could wrap her arms around him. He winced and Buffy realized she was using her full strength and must be actually hurting him but he didn’t say anything and she didn’t let up.

“Giles,” she said, recollecting that she’d been about to ask something. “Is he gone?”

“To England,” said Spike. “Yeah. Though no doubt he’ll be back just as soon as he hears.”

“So, he didn’t know,” Buffy concluded, not sure how she felt about that. Because shouldn’t he have realized what the gang were plotting even if she hadn’t thought them capable? If he hadn’t gone, maybe they wouldn’t have done it.

“I guess not,” said Spike, bringing Buffy back to the conversation. It took her a second to realize he hadn’t read her thoughts and was actually replying to what she’d said aloud. “Can’t imagine he would have gone, otherwise.”

“And you?” asked Buffy.

“Me?” Spike questioned, looking down at her for a moment before her meaning visibly dawned on him. His face crumpled, then hardened right before her eyes. Buffy released him with one arm so she could trace the lines of his face with her fingers.

“You didn’t know either,” she said, no longer needing him to answer. His body language said more than enough.

Getting up, Buffy paced two steps away from the chair then turned back to Spike, who was studying her intently. “I don’t want to go back there,” she said. “To the house. I can’t face it. Not now.”

“All right,” he said, “so stay here. Long as you like.”

Relief flooded through her at that, though she didn’t know why. This was Spike. He was the one who always held her together, not someone who pushed her away.

“I’m tired,” she announced on the next breath. “Can we lie down?”

“Sure,” said Spike casually, as if he wasn’t looking terrified. He offered to bring up pillows and blankets from the lower part of his crypt and “set up a nice space” for her, but Buffy shook her head.

“It’s too bright,” she told him, and even though Spike paled a little more, he didn’t object as he opened the trap door for her.

They went down into the cool and the dark and Buffy took a deep breath, sinking into Spike’s sheets covered in Spike’s scent. Later, she planned to get out of him all the details of her death and resurrection, but for the moment, Buffy set her mind to happier things. To answering, even if only in her own head, one of the questions Xander had thrown around earlier: how she and Spike came to be together.

It was funny, really, now she thought about it. She guessed they were official now, but Buffy wasn’t even sure when they’d started.


	3. Fool for Love – November 2000

The hits just kept on coming. Buffy kept dodging them, kept improving and thinking she was on top of things only to be knocked down again. She’d been more in tune with her power than ever before when Dracula showed up and pointed out she basically knew zilch about its origin. She had been at the peak of her physical strength before that one, single vamp got the best of her. She thought she’d finally settled into a happy, drama-free relationship when Riley pulled the rug out from under her feet with his confession that he’d rather risk dying of a heart attack than trust her to still want him half-powered and healthy. Then there was of course the massive revelation about Dawn not really being her sister, which Buffy still had no idea how to even begin processing, and her mom’s ‘nothing’ that might now be something. Something that required tests and overnight stays in the hospital.

Needless to say, when Spike showed up to interrupt Buffy’s brief moment to herself – shotgun in hand – she wasn’t best equipped to deal with him as well. All the stuff he’d told her didn’t quite fit in her brain, especially with everything else going on, and now here he was again, no doubt ready to heap more on top.

She didn’t really look at him, but through tear-blurred eyes she still saw him stand there, awkward. Silent. Still.

It was eerie and very unlike the Spike she knew. Much more like the William he’d described himself to be before, but she hadn’t really believed that, had she? He couldn’t really have been all those things – soft and shy. Romantic.

“What’s wrong?” he asked and Buffy felt her eyes widen even as they remained unfocused.

What was wrong? What was _right_? She heard herself tell him, “I don’t really want to talk about it,” and was surprised again when he let it go.

“Is there something I can do?” he asked instead, but Buffy couldn’t bring herself to speak again. It was all too much. For a brief moment, her overstretched brain idled on the thought of just running away from it all, and that’s when it hit her: the truth of what Spike had been saying about never getting a time-out from fighting, and how it made giving up altogether so scarily tempting.

She shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself, feeling rather than seeing Spike move to sit on the porch beside her. Hesitantly, and so gently it didn’t really feel real, he patted her back before lapsing back into being still again. Silence pooled around them, Buffy didn’t know for how long. The only thing stopping her from completely giving into despair was that it would prove Spike right, and god knows she couldn’t do that.

Eventually, she found herself with enough strength to focus on her immediate surroundings if nothing else. “What was your grand plan for the shotgun?” she asked Spike.

He looked down at it, sitting on the wooden boards beside him, and at least had the good grace to look embarrassed.

“Know me, Slayer,” he said, affecting an air of casualness with a shrug, “not always the best with plans.”

There wasn’t much to argue with there. Buffy was sure she could have found something, if she tried, but she really didn’t have the energy to bicker with him. That, if nothing else, had to be an ultimate sign of Bad Times. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what had been going on with him, anyway. At least the wanting to kill her part. Not so much the trying to kiss her part. His intention to do the tongue tango had very much not escaped her but she was trying very hard not to acknowledge that in her own brain, let alone out loud. There lay a can of worms of epic proportions that she _so_ didn’t want to open. Ever. So, pushing the weirdness of Spike’s apparent massive lack of judgement aside, Buffy brought her thoughts back to his more understandable faux pas. The logic on that was simple enough. She’d rejected him. Humiliated him by hitting him in a particularly tender sore-spot. Ergo, he wanted to murder her. Why couldn’t everything else in her life be so simple?

Buffy sighed and held out her hand. “I’m keeping this,” she told Spike when he handed the gun over. She set it away from both of them, content to figure out a way to dispose of it later. “I don’t even like guns,” she added conversationally.

“Rarely helpful,” Spike noted.

“Never,” affirmed Buffy. One more long lapse into silence later, she picked both herself and the gun up again and headed to the back door, holding it open. “You want cocoa?” she asked Spike, again not really looking at him. _Again,_ she decided not to explore the relief she felt when he silently moved to follow her in. She needed company and he was what was available. That’s all it was.

That’s all it would ever be.

\---

Spike didn’t have the first idea what he was doing. He’d already shifted gears so many times over the space of a few hours, his brain had damn near given up trying to keep track. He’d wanted to impress Buffy. Scandalize her, too. _Of course_ he’d wanted to kiss her. And then, yeah, kill her on top of that.

 _Then_ he’d seen her in tears and the script he’d hastily put together on the walk over got tossed out, all of his instincts shifting to comfort; to easing her pain, even if he didn’t know what had caused it. He knew Buffy well enough to safely assume it wasn’t the gut wound she was carrying that was upsetting her, and wasn’t arrogant enough to think it was his good self that had gotten to her, so that left a bit of a mystery. It was only once he was in the house and only able to detect one heartbeat besides hers – ever so slightly faster than Buffy’s, with the increased blood flow of youth and growth – that left Spike to conclude something was up with Joyce, wherever she was.

Panic flooded him at the thought of her being AWOL in the wee hours, but he tried his best not to show it. Buffy had said she didn’t want to talk about it and he’d honor that, for tonight, at least. He’d already pushed things too far with trying to kiss her. He could see that now. Playing with fire, he was. Damn idiotic when you were as flammable a creature as he was. Buffy had every right to stake him, but of course she’d gone for the much more painful option. Not that it mattered now. While he had no doubt they’d go back to their cold war of sarcasm and empty threats come sun-up, Spike was enjoying the feel of the unspoken truce between them for the night.

He watched as Buffy moved around the kitchen as if on autopilot, lifting mugs and spoons; setting the water on to boil. She reached into the high cupboard above the fridge for the stash of mini marshmallows Joyce always kept there and winced, her hand going to her stomach, the protective instinct stupidly redundant.

Spike moved past her and lifted the marshmallows, silently taking over the rest of the drink fixing while Buffy eased herself onto one of the stools at the island. She sighed and put her head in her hands.

“My mom is at the hospital,” she told him, finally, making the panic in his blood spike again.

“She’s sick?” he questioned, feeling foolish as soon as the question passed his lips. No one ever went to the hospital because they felt bright eyed and bushy tailed, did they?

“Maybe,” said Buffy, uncovering her eyes so she could take the mug he offered her. “She’s been having headaches. And she passed out last week. Fainted, or whatever. They’re running tests.”

“Ah.” What could he say to that? Buffy wouldn’t want empty platitudes any more than he wanted to offer them. Best go for honesty, then, he supposed. “I’m sorry,” he told her.

“Yeah,” she said softly, taking a sip, “me too.” After a little while, Buffy announced that she’d need to get up early so she could be there when her mum was discharged, but she didn’t make any move towards bed, only slumping against the island as much as her injury would allow.

Not able to bear how worried she was, Spike tried his hand at a distraction. “Got a proposition for you, pet.”

Buffy eyed him warily. “Whatever it is better not be gross.”

He rolled his eyes and started patting down his pockets, trying to locate the right one. Yeah, there it was. Spike fished out the stack of scrunched up bank notes he was after and began sorting through them, tossing a bunch carelessly aside.

“’M merely suggesting you get both of you a decent breakfast when you’re all done at the hospital. The bit, too. Can imagine none of you will be much up for cooking, and it’s important to keep your strength up, init? Could use the extra to cover cab fare.” He assumed Joyce wouldn’t be driving, or at least hoped she hadn’t taken the car.

When Spike got no response from Buffy, he cast her a sidelong glance and caught her gaping. “What?” he said, defensive.

She scrunched up her nose. “You’re offering me money?”

“ _No_ ,” said Spike, affronted at the mere idea. “Perish the bloody thought. In the first instance, it’s for _Joyce_ , not you. And secondly, it was your cash to begin with.”

That gave her pause, but still she didn’t look entirely convinced. Spike held up a hand before she could outright object, though. Once he had her full attention focused on what he was holding, he spread it out before her: not the notes she’d thrown at him that night – they were still in individual balls scattered around the kitchen island – but a neat stack of bills, torn almost exactly in half.

“They’re no use to me,” he pointed out. “You still have the other bits, right?”

Buffy pursed her lips, not saying or doing anything for a long moment before finally reaching into her own pocket and pulling out a slim wallet from which she extracted the matching set. “I don’t know why you bothered keeping them,” she said to Spike, pointedly ignoring the fact that she’d made the same call, perhaps hoping to reunite them with their other halves later on down the line.

With extreme magnanimity, he didn’t point out the hypocrisy, just started cross-referencing serial numbers and setting the bills aside once he found a match.

Buffy got up and dug a lone roll of Scotch tape, sans dispenser, out of a drawer before studiously setting about sticking everything back together, cutting each length of tape with her teeth.

Spike did his best to pretend he wasn’t avidly watching her talented mouth whilst also ignoring the fact she hadn’t used said mouth to either thank him or to verbally accept his proposal.

It was a night for saying more with actions than words, it seemed. Now he thought about it, it was probably the longest he’d spent with the Slayer without saying much of anything at all. It was… nice, he supposed. And he’d already admitted far more than he ever intended sharing with her while they were at the Bronze.

Spike didn’t know why he’d told her everything. He hadn’t meant to. Slayer was only interested in the highlight reel, but he’d damn well spilled his guts. He’d wanted to draw it out, hadn’t he? The whole farce. He could pretend Buffy wasn’t there because she needed info, and that she wasn’t paying. Pathetic creature that he was, he went as far as pretending they were actually on a date, complete with the beer and spicy buffalo wings he’d insisted on.

And now, sitting across from her as they continued matching and sticking money back together, his fingers ever so slightly brushing hers every so often, he found himself doing it again. Opening up when he’d already decided shutting the hell up was most definitely in both their best interests.

He murmured things about his own mother that he hadn’t dared even think in a century, about her being sick and him being powerless to help. Spike didn’t tell Buffy what he’d done in the end, to ‘cure’ her – he wasn’t thick enough for that – but admitted enough to let the Slayer know he understood her worry, rounding the whole topic off by saying, “She’s a good woman, Joyce. Nice lady.”

“Yeah, she is,” said Buffy, a small smile touching her lips.

Thrilled he’d been able to do that much for the Slayer, Spike got up from their task and placed empty mugs in the sink, deciding to get lost before he buggered things up again.

“You give her my best, yeah?” he said to Buffy as he went to the back door.

She stood up and crossed the short distance between them, holding the door open as he exited. “I will,” she promised. “You, uh….” She trailed off, abandoning whatever she’d been about to say in return. Maybe a request for him to stay safe, or be good or some such.

Spike nodded and descended the porch steps, heading back out into the night. He heard the kitchen door close and lock behind him, refusing to look back. Any residual denial he had over his feelings for Buffy had well and truly been swept away and he knew the truth, now: there was no going back.

It would be ridiculous to hope that he and Buffy would ever be more than… whatever the fuck they were but, then, he hadn’t been as bold to hope they’d have gotten as far as they had tonight. He sighed and lit a cigarette, resigned. What was it he’d been thinking earlier, about the calm they’d found in the night only being for that one night, and knowing it couldn’t last?

Setting aside his longing for impossible things, Spike picked up his step and channeled all his energy into hoping Joyce would be okay.


	4. After Life – October 2001

It didn’t make any sense. Buffy was looking around for something – she didn’t know what – in her house that also wasn’t her house. It kinda looked like the place they’d stayed in L.A. right after the divorce but before moving to Sunnydale, except not. Something was off that Buffy couldn’t put her finger on. Catching sight of herself in a mirror, she saw her thirteen-year-old-self complete with a necklace she’d been given for her birthday that year and a hair slide she’d had for maybe a decade at that point, but she knew in some distant part of her brain that she didn’t have either of them now. The necklace had gotten lost at the beach when she was there with Dawn the summer of 1999, and Dawn had taken that hair slide when she herself was thirteen. Buffy had pretended not to care, she told her mom it looked too young on her, anyway, but Buffy liked looking young back then, even while trying to be mature.

She took a step closer to the mirror and gasped at the up-close look at her eyes. They were definitely not thirteen-year-old Buffy’s eyes. Those eyes were old. They’d seen murder, and violence, and hate.

“You okay, honey?” came a voice from behind her, making Buffy spin around. Joyce tilted her head to compliment the quizzical look. “Buffy? Are you all right?”

 _Mom._ Buffy ran the short distance towards her and caught her in a giant hug, squeezing her and calling her name and crying, but the more she squeezed, the more Joyce slipped through her fingers. Buffy looked into her Mom’s face and all she saw was ashes. As she continued to stare and squeeze in vain, her fingers tingled with the feel of sliding reality. Her Mom disintegrated, just fell to a pile of dust at Buffy’s feet. Buffy’s feet and hands were black with having touched it. Her. Whatever she’d been. She….

Buffy’s eyes scrunched up of their own accord, like she was having brain freeze. She was trying to remember something. Anything that would block out what she’d seen. Then… then she remembered. The couch. The other house. Sunnydale. Her Mom. She… she was gone. Not disintegrated, but dead. Really, really dead. Not-ever-coming-back kind of gone. 

There was a sound like the universe ripping in two. Screeching, high-pitched and too much. Much too much. It was deafening, and it echoed. Buffy tried to cover her ears but that somehow made the noise louder, like her hands were trapping it inside herself. Her throat was sore, she noticed then. Raw. She coughed and threw up. Black bile. Someone, somewhere reached for Buffy and she lifted one hand from her ear to hit them. To kill them. To stop them from hitting or killing her.

It connected, so she struck again. She struck and struck until her hands were red and her vision shifted to darkness. The house was gone. Buffy herself was gone. Nothing was real except… except there were eyes. Blue eyes, looking at her. All around the eyes was red, like her hands had been. Buffy looked down and saw they had rematerialized and were still red. Bleeding. Blood. She felt her eyes widen and looked back at Spike. He was bleeding. She had…. What had she done?

\---

Spike had tried to stop her. He’d been watching – afraid to look away lest she dematerialize due to his inattention – and he’d been able to tell when she slipped into a nightmare, her heart rate picking up and breathing becoming shallow. He wondered if he should wake her but knew from his experience with Dru that could make things worse. So, he waited. It wasn’t until Buffy started to cry that he tried tightening his arms around her, but then she screamed and threw up. He would have let her go then, except he was worried she was going to hurt herself. When she lashed out, she caught him in the chin, and the cheek, and the forehead, but it was fine. So long as she was hitting him, she wasn’t scratching at her own face or arms, or running away into danger, traffic or some other vamp or demon, before her vision unclouded. It took a long time before that happened, and Spike was aching by that point, covered in both her blood and his own. Of course he hurt where she’d deftly succeeded in opening him up, but it was the level of sheer fear running through her, the sickening scent coming off her in waves that did him in. He thought he heard Buffy cry out for Joyce in her jumbled, juttering speech but couldn’t be sure. None of it beyond the blood and bruises felt quite real.

When he was fully satisfied Buffy was completely awake, Spike let go of her arms and watched as she half-jumped, half-fell out of bed and took six steps to the center of the room, where she stood and looked back at him, eyes wide and red from all the crying. Haunted.

“Buffy, love?” he said, just as quietly as he was able.

“How long,” she asked, her own voice barely above a whisper.

He could only look at her, hoping to figure out what she meant telepathically because talking clearly hurt her throat. He wasn’t surprised at that, given the feral yowl that had escaped her, not to mention the stale stomach acid that must be coating her tongue and lips.

“How long was I gone?” she pressed. “How long since….” She broke off in a sob. “Mom was…. She died before me, right? That… that was real?”

Spike took a deep breath but didn’t feel steadied by it. In the aftermath of Buffy’s death, he’d realized she’d never really had the chance to grieve for Joyce, and while that would have been awful if Buffy had lived, Spike had actually taken a small piece of solace knowing that she was spared it. Now, though. Now all that went out the window, and it was worse than it would have been in the first scenario. Everything was worse than he could have ever imagined.

“Buffy, I–”

“How long?” she said again, cutting him off, voice raised.

He looked down at the bed he was still lying on. The sheets a tangled mess. The pool of vomit inching slowly towards him. “You were gone for one hundred and forty-seven days. Got yourself part-way through one hundred and forty-eight, but….” He trailed off and had to re-center his train of thought. “Joyce was gone before then, yeah. She… she’s gone.”

Buffy didn’t say anything. When Spike looked up at her again, she seemed steady on her feet but her eyes were cold. Slowly, so as not to startle her, and careful to avoid the sick, he got up and stood before her, heart in his mouth. He had to hope she’d come to him – reach for him, like she’d done the day before. It was madness to think she’d slept for almost an entire day, but he’d counted the hours he held her just as he’d counted the days she was gone.

Mercifully, Buffy reacted. It took an eon, but eventually she held out her hand and he took it. She buried her face in his chest for a while longer before taking a step back to inspect his face.

“I… I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t…. I mean….” She swallowed. “I did that, didn’t I?”

He shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”

“No,” said Buffy, an edge in her voice. “Don’t do that.”

Spike sighed. “Yes, Buffy,” he said, lifting her hand to his lips. “You did it, but I’m okay. It’s fine.”

She frowned at him and called him a liar but fell back into the hug. He felt his heart soften and wondered how much more of this he could take. The upheaval. The very worst moments and the best falling after each other in quick succession. Yet through it all he knew for sure that he wouldn’t undo it. He’d told Dawn he wouldn’t rip Buffy out of heaven and he had every intention of sticking to it, but now she was here he knew he was too weak and selfish to regret every horrible thing she’d been through. He was not a good man. He was barely a man, point of fact, while she was the whole world. How could he let her worry about his pathetic injuries when she was torn up inside and he was glad she was in the world again, even if it meant that tearing? Gods, he was wretched. How had he ever thought he could deserve the sun?

“I need to get out of here,” Buffy said suddenly, startling him out of his thoughts.

“All right,” said Spike, doing his best to take it in his stride. “Where to?”

“Bathroom,” said Buffy, a blush rising to her cheeks. “Anywhere I can, um, clean up.”

Right. He knew there was a reason he should have made accommodations for humans in his crypt, but he seemed to have forgotten it over the summer. “Sun’s up,” he pointed out, “but we can take the car.”

Buffy nodded and they headed back up the ladder to the main part of the crypt, then out into the air. Spike spared a thought for his sheets, knowing he should probably do something about the state they were in, but ‘fuck it’, he decided. He could always burn them and buy more. Buffy was what mattered. So what if he’d be smelling her stomach acid for a week or more? He’d replace his entire bedding set before keeping her waiting.

They drove to an out-of-town complex and availed of their underground parking. Here, Buffy could use the ladies, get a new outfit, and feed and water herself all under one roof. She seemed hesitant to eat at first, but Spike petitioned for her to try at least something, so she forced down some dry crackers just for his benefit. Other shoppers were giving Spike queer looks – more queer than he was used to, at any rate – and he glared back before realizing his face must still be a mess of blood. It was a sure sign Buffy truly wasn’t herself that she hadn’t made him clean up, but she took great pains to wipe him down when he procured water and napkins for the task.

“How bad is it?” he asked and she winced.

“Might take a day or two.”

“And in the meantime?”

She took a long time before answering, clearly very carefully considering her options. “I guess I should go back to the house. For Dawn, if nothing else.”

Spike kissed her hand again. “Good idea, pet.”

\---

Willow sat on the edge of her bed and stared at the phone in her hand, wishing it had a cord she could twist around her fingers to help ease some of the nervousness she felt in her gut. She could feel guilty, but that was useless. She’d done what she’d done and there was no going back. No, she needed to focus on moving forward. Which meant she needed to make her second call, no matter how many guilty feelings it brought up again.

Taking a deep breath, Willow consulted the strip of paper sitting on her nightstand and typed in the number, waiting for it to connect. It took so painfully long, she wondered if it was just her imagination or because there were some extra steps involved in international calls. Just as she considered hanging up and looking into teleporting herself to England so she could have the conversation in person, Giles finally answered.

And so, she told him.

He took a sharp intake of breath, but thankfully didn’t start yelling. He didn’t even ask questions, which was unlike him, but Willow figured that was the shock. Supposing it was best to get the rest of it out in one go, Willow braced herself once last time and said, “there’s something else,” telling Giles about the Spike/Buffy revelation as well.

Giles got her to repeat it, pausing when she did. He paused so long, Willow worried the call had actually disconnected again, but finally he said he was coming and hung up.

Again, Willow stared at the phone, wondering what to make of it all. She didn’t have to wonder long before the sound of the front door opening distracted her. Tara had taken Dawn for breakfast, and they hadn’t been gone long, so Willow figured it wasn’t either of them coming in now. She got up and moved to the top of the stairs, her heart fluttering when she saw it was Buffy. She’d come home.

\---

Spike was still watching Buffy like a hawk, even while trying not to crowd her. He watched from the hall as she walked around her living room, taking in all of the familiar items as well as the tiny changes that had happened in her absence – the vase that had been replaced when Dawn knocked into the original, shattering it, and the mantel clock that had a dent from where he had thrown it on the floor in a rage at one of Xander’s jibes. Spike was surprised it had survived the encounter at all, but clearly it was made of sturdy stuff.

As Buffy continued her careful inspection, he felt Willow appear at his elbow to watch, too.

“Got a lot of nerve,” he told her, hushed so Buffy didn’t hear.

“What?” said Willow.

Spike turned to stare at her. “You’re not surely gonna pretend not to know why I’m upset.”

“But…” Willow’s lip wobbled. “Buffy’s back. She’s okay.”

“She is _not_ okay!” Spike snapped, casting a look back at her again. She’d stopped at the sound of his raised voice and took a second to look at him, then Willow, before going back to her task.

Forcing himself to be quiet again, Spike continued. “Magic always has a price,” he told Willow. “You should know that already.”

She lifted her chin. “I knew what I was doing.”

Spike felt his eyes blaze. “Is that something you really wanna claim?”

“Well….” Suddenly, she didn’t look so sure.

“Always a price,” Spike reiterated. “Make sure Buffy ain’t the one paying it, yeah?”

“Is that a threat?”

“Yes, it bloody well is.”

Willow opened her mouth to reply, but Spike had heard enough. Not sure he could rein himself in any more, he went to Buffy’s side. She had paused over a photo of her with her friends and was staring at it curiously.

Spike looked at it too but didn’t see whatever had clearly mystified her. “You all right?” he asked, despite it being a bloody stupid question. It was the only thing he could think to ask. Anything to get her talking.

Buffy shook her head. “It’s nothing. I… I’m….” She trailed off and glanced towards the hall again but Willow was gone. “I’m tired. Can we sleep some more? Here?”

“Sure,” he said and they went upstairs.

It didn’t appear like anyone had touched Buffy’s room in the time she’d been gone. The sheets were musty and Spike offered to change them but Buffy said no. “We can do it later. I just need to lie down. We can rest on top.”

“Sure,” he said again, though he did convince her to at least put on nightwear.

Buffy cuddled against him. Just as he was sure she was drifting off, she opened her eyes and asked him to forgive her if she hit him again, and not to go anywhere if she yelled.

“Scouts honor,” he vowed. Like he could do anything else.


	5. Shadow – November 2000

It was so not an ‘enjoy a free all-you-can-eat breakfast and take a nice cab ride home’ kind of day, as it turned out. Buffy and Dawn had gotten to the hospital early, mistakenly thinking their mom would be ready to go, but the overnight stay was apparently set to continue on into the afternoon, then maybe even longer if they actually found something.

Buffy prayed they didn’t find something. She didn’t really know anything about prayer, or even what or who she was supposed to be praying to, but she had to try.

“Hey, Dawn,” she said when she could stare at the wall no longer. The money she and Spike had taped back together was burning a hole in her pocket. “You wanna raid the gift shop? Pick out a really nice present for Mom?”

Dawn cast a sidelong glance at the door to the corridor Joyce had gone down then looked back at Buffy. She got to her feet. “Uh, sure.”

It seemed to Buffy like there was some kind of correlation between being terrified and not being able to make a decision, because as they looked at the five different kinds of flowers, four options for boxed chocolates, and an assortment of soft toys, suddenly neither she nor Dawn could pick a damn thing.

Buffy sighed, frustrated. “Let’s just buy them all.”

Dawn gaped at her. “How much allowance money do you think I have?”

“You’re not paying,” said Buffy, adding, “I’m not paying either,” when Dawn only continued to stare.

“Buffy, you’re….” Dawn paused to look around. “You’re not actually gonna _steal_ , are you? Because I– I mean, I don’t think Mom would–”

An indignant noise escaped Buffy’s throat. “Of course not, doofus!” She pulled the taped notes out of her back pocket. “It’s on Spike.”

Of course, that only elicited more questions. Questions that Joyce echoed when they brought her the haul. By the time they had returned from the gift shop, Buffy and Dawn had been granted permission to go in and sit with their mom as she awaited results.

Rather than explain that she regularly had to hoard her own allowance money to pay for slaying intel, Buffy simply told her mom and sister that Spike had stopped by the house the night before and made a donation to the ‘Get Better Fund’ when he heard Joyce was in the hospital.

Joyce smiled. “Oh, he’s such a nice boy.”

“Yeah,” agreed Dawn a little dreamily.

Buffy stared at them both, her lip curling of its own accord. “One,” she said, pointing to her mom, “he’s way old, not a boy. And two.” She turned to Dawn. “Don’t sigh like that, it’s creepy. Spike isn’t nice, he’s… Spike.”

“Boy am I sick of hearing that name,” came a voice from the doorway. Buffy looked up and saw Riley standing there, his arms crossed and jaw set. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure.” She followed him out into the hall and closed the door to her mom’s room behind her. “What’s up?”

Riley raised his eyebrows. “Why don’t you tell me?”

_Huh?_ Buffy looked at him closely, trying to figure out where the attitude was coming from before she glanced back at her mom’s room. Right, that must be it. He was worried. “We’re still waiting for the doctor to stop in,” she told him.

“Uh huh,” said Riley. “And when were you planning to tell me this?”

Buffy blinked. “Tell you that there’s nothing to say yet?”

He frowned and uncrossed his arms. “I saw Spike at your house. He told me you were here. Had kinda figured that might be something you would have told me yourself.”

Oh. _Oh, crap._ She had forgotten to tell him, hadn’t she? “Things have been a little intense,” she pointed out, but Riley still didn’t look impressed. He asked Buffy how come Spike knew and she found herself suddenly not sure what to say. The hours they’d spent together the night before had been innocent, but she had a distinct feeling Riley wouldn’t see them that way.

“Can we talk about this later?” she asked, annoyed when it very much looked like he was going to say no, but then a doctor approached to say he finally had results to go over with the family. Buffy followed him back inside her mom’s room and told Dawn to wait with Riley in the corridor, something neither of them looked happy about. 

After that was talk of shadows and biopsies, then more waiting. And then, just when Buffy resigned herself to spending the rest of eternity in a small, grey, airless room, the doctor showed up again and said Joyce was in recovery. Buffy asked if there were results and he suggested she wait, but screw that, any more waiting and she’d explode. 

So, at her pressing, the doctor gave it to her straight. That was a gut punch if she ever felt one. By the time it got to the dealing-with-a-snake-demon portion of her day, Buffy actually felt glad of the distraction. A distraction she could pummel, no less.

\---

Spike idled outside Buffy’s house, sick with fear. It had been hours and the only person who had shown up all day was bloody Riley. At least when it had still been light out, Spike could waste time worrying about getting hit by indirect sunlight. Now, in the dark, the real worries consumed him. It was all a bit much, and he was considering abandoning his vigil when he finally caught sight of Buffy limping up the sidewalk towards him. She looked disheveled and bone tired. He caught his breath, that human instinct never having left him.

“What happened?” he asked when she was in hearing range, surprised when she visibly startled. Clearly, whatever had gone down had Buffy so exhausted she was off her guard.

“Demon attack,” she said simply, coming to stop in front of Spike. “Don’t worry, I got him. Or, uh….” She scrunched up her nose. “I don’t actually know if it was a him. Isn’t it weird how everyone always kind of assumes things are male if we don’t already know for sure?”

Spike stared blankly at her. After a long moment, she sighed and looked him properly in the eye. “Never mind. What are you doing here? No, wait, let me guess. My house is just _between parts and other parts of town_ , right?”

Spike’s mouth went dry. “Er, right,” he agreed, readying his next excuse, but then Buffy held up a hand and got in before him again.

“Riley told me you were here earlier. Something about sniffing my sweaters?”

“What?” scoffed Spike. “He’s– no! I mean….” He gestured broadly. “Bloke’s clearly off his rocker.”

“Whatever,” said Buffy. “I’m going to shower and change. Mom needs me back at the hospital.”

“How is Joyce?” asked Spike then, glad to finally be on firmer ground.

“Oh, uh.” Buffy swallowed. “They, um…. They found a… a tumor.”

“A tumor?” he questioned. “What does–?”

“It means surgery,” Buffy said quickly, probably to get the conversation over with.

She groaned and Spike rested a hand on her shoulder, trying and failing not to feel downright gleeful when Buffy leaned into the touch ever so slightly. Though all too soon, she was pulling away again, heading up the path to her house.

“You want me to patrol?” Spike called after her.

She turned to face him again, silently considering the offer before eventually saying, “Keep an eye out for snake demons.”

He raised his eyebrows in question but she didn’t elaborate. “Right, then,” he concluded, clearing his throat. He watched Buffy unlock the house and go inside, then went on his way, wondering to himself what to make of it. Hoping, he realized bitterly, hadn’t seemed to do a damn thing for Joyce. And likely it wouldn’t improve his status with Buffy, either. No, action was what counted. He needed to _actively_ do better – either to try and win the Slayer over or to mask his growing feelings towards her, because standing about outside her house was clearly wearing thin. Just as soon as she was back on form, he’d be dust in the wind. No way she’d let the sweater sniffing slide if she wasn’t worried sick about her mum.

So, where did that leave Spike? What exactly did ‘better’ look like? he wondered. Patrolling probably was a good start, but it wasn’t enough. Even Xander sodding Harris had done stints sweeping cemeteries in the past.

Spike continued to muse on ways to better himself as he took out two fledgling vamps, his thoughts coming to an abrupt halt when he ran into Harmony on the hunt. He’d leapt, knocking her to the ground, and had a stake halfway to her chest before realizing it was her.

“Geeze, Spike!” she exclaimed, shoving him off. “If you’re gonna use the element of surprise, at least, you know, give me a heads up or whatever.”

He stood up and rolled his eyes, offering a hand to Harmony who dusted herself off before looking pointedly at the stake still clamped in his other hand. Spike went to put it in his back pocket before something clicked in his brain. Harmony was a vampire. She was out to kill people, same as the fledglings had been. Except she wasn’t a fledge anymore, which meant she already had blood on her hands. If he was doing his job right – the way Buffy would have done it – he would stake her. He _should_ stake her. Except, well, he knew her. They’d been shagging. Not that he hadn’t tried to stake her before, but he had to admit to himself that had been a little harsh. And now… now he actually wasn’t sure he could do it.

Harmony had a hand on her hip and was clearly waiting for something. Probably for him to call her a halfwit or invite her back to bed. Maybe both. “What’s with you killing our kind, anyway? You never really answered when I asked you before,” she said at last, when he couldn’t find a thing to say, his brain still stuck on the fact that he should be killing her.

“You know it’s totally ruining my social life,” she continued. “Everyone knows we’re together, and they know what you do, so none of the cool vamps want to hang out with me.”

Spike bit his lip and she slapped him in the chest, clearly not impressed with the lack of response.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Harm?” he said, finally deciding something.

She smiled brightly at him. “Yeah?”

“You gotta leave town.”

The smile dropped from her face. “What are you talking about?”

He shrugged, hoping he was doing the right thing. Or close enough to it to count. “Things aren’t working out, are they? And you’ve got that whole social thing. Why don’t you make a fresh start?”

“A fresh start?” she echoed.

“Yeah.” Bloody hell, this was more irritating than it needed to be. For all his years, Spike had never really gotten experience in breaking up with anyone before. “Try L.A.” he suggested. “Go piss off Angel for a bit.”

“Angel?” questioned Harmony. “Isn’t that the guy Buffy was with?”

Spike ground his teeth at the reminder. “He’s a vamp,” he told her.

“Oh. Uh… hmm.” Harmony frowned. “Why am I going to find him again?”

“To get you the hell away from me,” Spike snapped. “Either that, or I’ll have to….” He gestured to the stake.

“Oh, my god!” Harmony threw up her hands. “You are so– so….” She stalled, clearly struggling to locate an appropriate word before finally landing on, “Slayer-whipped.”

Spike laughed and laughed as he watched her storm off into the night, not because it was ridiculous – which, he knew, it was – but because it was also so very, terribly true.


	6. Flooded – October 2001

Spike woke up alone. The bed beside him was still a little warm, and he had a vague recollection of Buffy whispering that she was just going to the bathroom as she’d disentangled herself from his arms, so he didn’t immediately panic. It was only as he lay there, once again playing over everything that had happened in his head, that it occurred to him she was taking an inordinately long time.

He told himself he wasn’t supposed to be crowding her, and reminded himself that not only was she a grown adult who could take care of herself, she was The Slayer. Capital T, Capital S. Best one there’d ever been. She was more than capable of using the sodding loo on her own.

Except, it had been another ten minutes and she still wasn’t back.

Spike strained his ears to see if he could hear water splashing or whatall, and he could, but the sound wasn’t coming from the bathroom. It didn’t even sound like it was coming from the kitchen. Best he could figure it, the entire upstairs was empty aside from himself. There was just one heartbeat, and it was distant. Maybe in the basement. _What in the hell?_

He got up and padded downstairs. Brief looks into the rooms along the way confirmed what his ears were telling him: nobody home. Dawn’s room, the Wicca’s bedroom, the bathroom, kitchen, living and dining rooms were all empty. And yeah, there was definite water rushing in the basement. Spike paused at the door, bracing himself for what he was about to find, because it didn’t sound like it was just a washing machine going. Was there a sink in there? He couldn’t remember.

One deep breath later, he opened up and–

“Bloody hell.” There she was.

Spike frowned at the water all around Buffy. It was up to her ankles already and rising fast.

“There’s a leak,” she noted.

He set his jaw. “You don’t say.”

Buffy shrugged. “The water pressure seemed off. I came down here, tried to tighten a thing and….” She shrugged again, as if the situation didn’t bother her. As if she hadn’t noticed that she was soaked to the skin and shivering violently.

“Right,” said Spike, sliding into the all-practical action mode he’d adopted for dealing with disasters over the summer. “Get yourself up here and changed.”

Buffy finally turned to looked at him. She gestured back to the water. “I just can’t leave it.”

Spike sighed. “ _You_ can. Someone else will deal with it.”

“Someone who?”

\---

Xander was feeling on edge. He had, in fact, been on edge ever since the night of Willow’s spell, and had been inching forward pretty much every hour since, so he really didn’t know how he hadn’t toppled off the edge right to the bottom of a chasm already.

“Well why not?” Anya asked him for the third time in as many minutes.

He closed his eyes momentarily, hoping the small action would grant him strength. It didn’t.

“We’re not telling my friends about our engagement,” he said again. “Not yet. It’s not the right time. It would be insensitive to Buffy.” _And I’ve changed my mind about the whole thing and have been trying to get out of it but don’t know how, but really wish you’d leave it alone._

Anya opened her mouth to reply but was forestalled by the phone ringing.

Xander answered on the second ring, so grateful for the distraction that he didn’t even care it was Spike on the other end.

“A leak? Uh-huh, yeah. I can talk you through shutting off the water, then– what? Yeah, I’ll come over.”

He hung up and looked over at Anya, who was poised expectantly. “We’re going to Buffy’s house?”

Xander forced a smile. “Sure, sweetie. You ready?” He’d of course been hoping to leave her behind so he could have a complete break from her, but consoled himself with the knowledge that she wouldn’t want to get wet so would likely stay out of his way while he worked. Just so long as she didn’t say anything to Spike or Buffy about wedding plans while she waited.

Anya lifted her magazine and beamed back at him. “Ready!”

\---

Something shifted. Something that gave Skaggmore a little more wiggle room.

Skaggmore took full advantage of the wiggle room.

It wiggled, stretched, tensed and untensed its muscles. They weren’t visible yet, but it was getting stronger. It could feel it. Skaggmore would continue to grow and soon it would be ready to strike.

For now, it would watch more. It would wait.

\---

Buffy changed out of her sodden pajamas at Spike’s urging. Honestly, she found it hard to care about being wet, or cold, or… well, anything. He had wanted her to have a shower, but then realized that option was off the table what with the water situation. He’d said this out loud, muttering his thoughts to himself as he fussed over her.

Buffy let him. It was easier than saying anything – telling him it didn’t matter if she was dirty, and shivering or whatever. She’d survive. And, well, if she didn’t, she could trust Willow to bring her back again.

Okay, yeah, that thought struck home and definitely made her feel something. But it was nothing good. Buffy tried to shake it away, but if her brain was an Etch-a-Sketch, it seemed to be broken. _Time for Plan B._

“Spike?”

He looked up from where he was tying her shoelaces. “Yeah?”

“Come here.”

He stood up, looking uncertain. “Yeah?” he said again.

“Kiss me.”

“Buffy, I–”

She leaned in and pressed her lips to his, giddy at the feel of him kissing her back. It only took two seconds for not only the bad feeling to go away, but a good – really, _really_ good – feeling to replace it. All too soon, though, the good feeling was gone again as Spike pulled away.

“Xander’s here.”

“What? No,” protested Buffy. She was just about to point out that she hadn’t heard a knock at the door, so maybe Spike imagined whatever he’d heard when the unmistakable sound of the front door handle being turned echoed through the hall and up the stairs to where they stood in her bedroom.

“Hello?” called Xander’s stupid unmistakable voice.

Buffy sighed as Spike pulled from her grasp.

“Be down in a tick!” he called to Xander before looking back at her. “You all right?”

 _No!_ she wanted to scream. She wanted more smoochies and Spike all to herself, but that was apparently too much to ask. “I’m fine,” she said instead. “I’ll, uh, follow you down in a minute.” _At least then maybe Xander will be in the basement already and I won’t have to deal with small talk or stupid jokes._

“All right.” Spike kissed her forehead and she watched him go.

Exactly two beats passed before Buffy followed him, because it turned out she couldn’t help herself. She didn’t want to be alone. She didn’t want it so bad, she’d apparently even risk the dreaded Xander jokes.

He was making The Small Talk with Spike as she reached the lower landing, only pausing when he saw her.

“Hey, Buff!”

She dodged a hug, instead attaching herself to Spike’s side like a limpet. Xander visibly paled but didn’t say anything, and it was then Buffy noticed he’d brought Anya with him. _Oh, joy._

“Hi Buffy!” she said excitedly. Clearly, she hadn’t developed the ability to read the room while Buffy had been gone. Or, er, the hallway.

Buffy, Spike, and Xander spent a moment staring awkwardly at each other before Buffy’s eyes landed on the magazine Anya was holding. A bridal magazine. _That’s weird._

Xander seemed to follow her gaze and notice the title for the first time then, too, because his cheeks went from pale to red and he snatched the magazine from Anya’s hand. A little roughly, thought Buffy, but she didn’t care enough to question it. Anya glared at him but also said nothing as he moved off towards the kitchen.

“The lever for shutting the water off should be in here,” he said, all business, seemingly to no one in particular.

“So,” said Anya, turning back to Buffy, voice chipper again, “has Willow told you you’re broke yet?”

“Huh wuh?” Buffy gaped at her and Spike growled.

At this, Anya finally seemed to finally get a clue – or half a clue – because her smile dimmed a little. “That’s a no, right?” She looked back and forth between Spike and Buffy before saying, “Come on, I’ll show you,” and leading Buffy into the dining room by her arm.

It was a testament to how pissed off Spike was that he actually left her side to willingly go check on Xander, which should have prepared Buffy for the badness that Anya had in store for her, but nope. When she’d said broke, she’d meant it.

Buffy could barely conceive of the colossal lack of money she had. She stared at all of the papers Anya had laid out, the calculator set on top, and all the as yet unopened envelopes that were covered in giant red lettering.

Did Spike know about all this? Was he angry because he did and had wanted to keep it from her, or just because of how Anya had delivered the news? Buffy knew his knowledge or lack thereof was the least of her problems, but she found it was all she could focus on. All of the rest – the figures and the letters and Anya’s stupid still-smiling face – was too much.

When Xander returned from checking out the basement, he told Buffy he’d called “a guy” and gotten an approximate quote of how much sorting it all out would be.

“This is how much if it’s a simple fix,” he explained, pointing to the first number written across a piece of paper, “or,” he moved his finger to the second, much higher number, “this is the price if you need a full copper re-pipe. My guy’s gonna come by later to tell you for sure, but he says based on the age of the house, it’s probably that one.” Xander’s finger stayed beside the larger number.

Buffy took the piece of paper, took a moment to consider it alongside the minus figure on the calculator screen, and felt her brain check out. “Thank you for the information,” she heard herself say to both Xander and Anya in a weird monotone voice, and then she felt rather than saw Spike come to stand behind her. It was then she decided that even if he had known about her money problems and hadn’t wanted to tell her, she couldn’t be mad at him. Not when she was already mad with everyone else, and he was the only one to make her feel better.

Thinking again about how his kisses proved to be the perfect distraction from life’s misery, Buffy was on the verge of dragging him back upstairs for more of those and maybe even more than that when someone knocked on the front door. She watched as Xander opened up and Giles stepped back into her life, like he’d never been gone. Like _she’d_ never been gone.

“Hello, Buffy,” he said in his soft British accent.

He pulled her in for an awkward hug and, the next thing she knew, she was crying all over him and hating herself for it. She didn’t know when the hug/crying combo ended, or even who ended it, but somehow they ended up sat on the couch, facing each other with cups of tea in front of them. 

Sugary, for the shock.

For a little while, Buffy was lost in Giles’ orbit and she forgot all about Xander, Anya, and Spike still standing there, watching them. It wasn’t until Giles asked her about Spike that she became super aware of them just standing about, listening. 

As if he didn’t notice or care about the audience, Giles asked if what he’d heard was true – if she was with Spike, and what that meant; when it had happened. So many questions, all revolving on a theme, and Buffy didn’t feel equipped to answer any of them. She floundered, grateful for the distraction of the phone ringing, except it occurred to her as she pressed the receiver to her ear, that every other distraction she’d had that day had been progressively worse than the last.

And this was the same. Because it was Angel, and he wanted to see her.


	7. Listening to Fear – November 2000

Buffy didn’t know if she’d done the right thing. She thought having her mom back at home until it was time for her operation would be a comfort, but mostly it made things harder. More real. And Buffy wasn’t sure she could handle any more reality. Though the apparent unreality of her sister wasn’t any better.

She sighed and shoved her hands deeper into the too-hot soapy water, grasping futilely for a dish that kept slipping between her numbed fingers. By the third time it escaped her clutches, the tears had started, and once they’d begun, they came in torrents and didn’t seem to want to stop.

The upbeat Mariachi music in the background had been supposed to put a positive spin on things but, again, only seemed to make things seem even worse. Buffy would turn it off except A. wet hands – there was no point getting electrocuted into the matter – and B. the sound was drowning out the sound of Joyce’s nonsense rambling, if nothing else.

That had been the hardest part. Buffy had been warned it might happen, but she hadn’t expected it to be so loud, or incessant, or… _pointed_. She knew, logically, that she wasn’t anything like “disgustingly fat,” as Joyce said, yet the criticism still stung like a bitch. Turns out all those years of fashion magazines had given her a deep-seated insecurity after all.

Despite the tears and horrible shame, Buffy pressed on and finished the dishes, perhaps scrubbing them a little too forcefully in places. She had just pulled the plug and reached for a towel when the back door burst open and Spike ran in, panting.

Buffy turned to him, half-startled, mostly annoyed. “What the hell are you doing?”

“ _Me?_ ” said Spike. “Why are you just standing there when there’s slaying to be had?”

“What?” His excuses to hang around were making less sense by the day.

“Demon,” said Spike succinctly. “Why aren’t you killing it?”

Buffy went to ask ‘what’ again when Spike crossed the kitchen and turned off the radio, letting the sound of Joyce crying for help be heard again. He pointed in the general direction of the sound and Buffy relaxed, understanding.

“Oh. That’s not a demon. That’s just–”

“No,” said Spike, persisting. He tapped his nose. “There’s a demon. I can smell it from all the way down the street.”

Buffy stared at him for a moment, trying to figure out if he was serious and deciding that he certainly seemed so when Dawn started screaming upstairs. She bolted for the stairs, then, annoyed at Spike for taking the time to convince her instead of running directly to the rescue and more annoyed with herself for having a demon in her house and not noticing. Sure, being mad at Spike didn’t exactly make sense in this instance – Buffy was dimly aware of that – but the irritation came naturally and gave her something to focus on as she barreled along the upstairs hallway and into her mom’s room, where Dawn was fending off something gross and slimy with a coat rack. Buffy took the rack from her, snapped it in two, and used the pointy end to get the creature to back up.

“Protect Dawn,” she yelled to Spike over her shoulder as she circled, trapping the thing into a corner. Now she was up close, Buffy could smell it, too, and _gah!_ There wasn’t enough air freshener in the world to counteract that stench.

Stinky demon hissed and tried to squirt something at her, but she dodged it, distantly aware of Spike following her order, his distinctive tingle at the back of her neck lessening as he escorted Dawn to the safety of her room.

Buffy took her fear and frustration and anger out on the demon, glad to have an outlet for it all, and only slightly disappointed when it died quickly. Three breaths to recenter herself and she became aware of a gurgle behind her. Turning, she saw Joyce pinned to the bed with goop, a coating of it covering her nose and mouth.

“Mom!” Buffy ran over and scooped it off with her hand, panic flooding her afresh. Joyce coughed and gasped, holding on tightly as Buffy pulled her to her chest and wept. She didn’t know how long they stayed like that, half-sitting, half-lying there in the foul-smelling bed, but her mom seemed fairly coherent and was beginning to talk – to ask Buffy if she was okay, and what happened – when the sound of the front door bursting open filled the house.

Buffy released her mom and ran downstairs, surprised and irritated to find a bunch of military men in her hallway, Riley at the head. He moved to go past her, barely acknowledging her presence as he told the others to check each room and report back.

“The demon’s dead,” said Buffy, making them stop in their tracks, all the soldiers looking at Riley as if for confirmation. 

He told them to stand down then pulled her aside. “You’re okay?”

Buffy crossed her arms. “No. I’m not.”

Riley’s eyes skated over her head and shoulders, as if looking for an open wound. As if Buffy would be distressed by mere bleeding and physical pain.

“You knew this thing was coming here,” she said. A statement, not a question. Almost an accusation.

“Why do you think we came?”

“The coming with firepower I understand,” said Buffy, though she didn’t know how or when he’d gained access to calling in SWAT or whatever. “What I don’t get is why I didn’t get a heads up.”

“There wasn’t time.”

“A call takes ten seconds, Riley. Thirty at most. You couldn’t find half a minute while driving here? My mom could have been–” She broke off, not able to withstand the thought, then refocused. “If Spike hadn’t come by, then–”

“Spike?” said Riley, his jaw clenched. “Where is he?”

Buffy stared at her boyfriend, barely able to recognize the sweet, carefree guy from a year ago. It looked like he wanted to tell his commandos to start searching the house again.

“Can you say missing the point?” she snapped at Riley.

He visibly bristled but stopped looking around. His eyes were back on Buffy, almost boring into her as he said, “Next time, I’ll call.”

It should have been enough to finish the stupid argument, but she couldn’t help but feel like he was only saying it because he didn’t want Spike to get in there first. As if it was all about scoring stupid points and not a matter of life and death.

She shouldn’t have said it – she knew she wasn’t being fair to Riley, the same way she hadn’t been fair to Spike in her thoughts earlier – but Buffy couldn’t help herself from snapping a second time; releasing a little more of the anger and frustration that had started to build again. “At least Spike helps,” she said, regretting it as soon as she saw Riley flinch.

In the next moment, his face hardened. “You don’t let me,” he began to say, when one of the soldiers – Buffy thought his name was Graham – came up and whispered something in Riley’s ear.

“Right,” Riley told him, pushing the argument aside as he turned back to Buffy. “Can we take the body?”

She bit her lip, tempted to ask if they wanted to experiment on it or just examine and destroy it, but decided against it. If she kept giving into her desires, Buffy didn’t see her relationship lasting much longer.

“Take it,” she said, sighing; suddenly feeling the full exhaustion of the day, the week. “It’s upstairs.” She was going to say, ‘in my mom’s room’ but didn’t want everyone traipsing in there while Joyce was vulnerable and still in her nightwear. “You know what? I’ll bring it down.” Buffy wasn’t in a hurry to touch the thing again, but it was the lesser of two evils. Plus, she didn’t want Riley discovering Spike actually was still in the house and blowing another gasket.

Swiftly and silently, the Slayer grabbed the dead demon, which was somehow smelling even worse than before, and tossed it downstairs at the feet of her boyfriend.

He went to ask something, but she cut him off, not wanting to get into another conversation. She was so on edge, she was pretty sure anything either of them had to say would lead to another fight, and she didn’t have the energy. She had her mother still to resettle.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” she told Riley, watching as two of his men lifted the creature and carried it outside. _Were_ they his men? He certainly seemed in charge, and that was a development, but again something Buffy didn’t have the will to get into tonight.

“Tomorrow,” affirmed Riley, clearly well aware of the subtext. He knew when he was being dismissed. And although he didn’t look happy about it, Buffy was grateful when he did as she asked.

_Relieved probably isn’t what I should feel as I watch my boyfriend leave_ , she thought to herself before heading back upstairs to deal with the fallout.

\---

Spike had promised himself he’d stop walking by Buffy’s house in a vain, pathetic attempt to be near her, but now that it turned out his presence had been some use, he was glad of the lack of willpower.

He was sat on the edge of Dawn’s bed, her small body pressed tightly to his side as they listened to Buffy and Riley fight. She’d stopped trembling and seemed intent on staying quiet as a mouse, no doubt hoping to glean as much from the interaction as humanly possible.

Not being human, Spike gleaned more. The brief hesitation when Buffy had been asked about him. The slight increase in her heart rate as she shifted the conversation away again, before following up with that glorious statement.

_At least Spike helps._

He was trying to decide if it was enough to pin his hopes on when Dawn finally said, “I don’t think I like him anymore.”

“Eh?”

“Riley,” said Dawn. “I thought he was good for Buffy, but now….” She shrugged. “I’m not so sure.”

Spike smiled, unable and unwilling to stop himself. He heard the front door close and breathed a happy sigh, idly ruffling Dawn’s hair. It was probably for the best that she couldn’t see his face from her position. Wouldn’t do any good for her to get wind of how much her words – and the thought of Riley leaving – cheered him.

Buffy’s footsteps sounded on the stairs and Spike took a moment to school his features before releasing Dawn and getting up.

“You okay, pidge?” he asked and she nodded, if a little hesitantly. She was a brave one. He admired that in a lady.

Spike flashed a smile that was just for her and exited onto the landing just as Buffy came to a stop in front of him. Her eyes flicked to Dawn’s now closed bedroom door and he gave a small incline of his head. “She’ll be fine.”

Buffy breathed a sigh of relief and said she’d check on her in a bit. “I’ve still got to get mom sorted. Change bedding, explain away the evil monster, you know.”

Spike nodded. “All in a night’s work.”

Buffy smiled a weary, self-deprecating smile that barely reached her cheeks, let alone her eyes. “Yay, my life.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to suggest he make hot cocoa and have it waiting for her when she was done smoothing sheets and getting the niblet off to sleep, but Buffy turned toward Joyce’s room, the dismissal clear.

Spike headed for the stairs instead, his undead heart swelling as he heard Buffy say “Thank you, Spike,” when she slipped away.


End file.
